the work

Now and then
I sit down and
try to write something

that reflects
a moment of life.
a bit of art even.

now and then I have
something to say,
most times

nothing to say.

so I watch TV
or love my woman
until something from

the heart strikes my affable
courtship down and I reach
for pad and pencil

to paint a feeling
on a scrap of paper
to get as close to it

as I can.

But more then most times,

I just find myself
sitting alone trashing
paper and missing out on

what ever
going
on.

Larking on a bench

The radiant late afternoon
sun splintered her long undisciplined
red hair off into hollywood glitter.

Tall, leggy, a looker.

The authority of her barbed walk
an expedient learned on nights spent
wagering in the back seats of red chevy's.

I lean back on my bench,
thinking on the past
days of my life.

Ahhha!

Just an other romantically read
middle class jane,
your carnal bed

obligingly neat,
sugar crisp,
caressed

and reserved
no doubt about it,
for an authentic rod mckuen.

coral shadows tilt the moment.

The air taunt
with the bitter
stalking fem tang,

sweet tangerine
extract tricks
old memories

into being.

Feeling the shadows
building about me.
I twisted away,

you softly slide in,
sitting closer
then I would.

That easy eye
crinkling
smile.

Crossing your elegant legs.
My afternoon is caught,
held tight between

your hands.

you wisper,

Old william blake penned
heartbreak and spoke to god
on dog days not unlike this one.

I panic,

dropping my old
tattered bukowski
on the withered grass.

Her laughing eyes throttled cohesion,
marking the passage from gentle
etiquette to rough boyish

affections.

I whisper back to her,

yes, and poor robert
lee has such heaps of broken
glass to sweep away and miles to go.

and why not,
you say,
I and

robert graves soldiered at jesus' crucification.

softly i spoke,

do you know of
bukowski's lovers, loyal
lifetakers and heartbreakers all,

the nights writing whored about town.

gauzy voiced, she speaks,

I am the woman promised you
by the gods of my father.
Your task is my heart.

I have fashioned my part.
This is no lark,
You can see

me home.

Dinner at my place

Karen came over
to my place
and I

cooked her dinner.
Mexican pasta
pinto beans

and lemon pie ALA mode.

After dishes,
we talked and
I oiled her back

and brushed
her hair
back

from her face
and her lips
were soft

and easy,
banishing
my childlike fears.

I held
her hand
and caressed

her body
leisurely
feeling the treasures

sealed within
her heart
quite

a change
after her years
holding back from the mystery.

She held on to me
tight and fierce.
I tasted her

sweet breasted buds,
and felt the curve
of her enticing

hip.

To deserve
her best
all I

did was love
her like a man

should.

^

Biography